


The Merits of Toast (Marmalade Boysex Mix)

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-12
Updated: 2005-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:36:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is marmalade.  And there is boysex.  Utter PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merits of Toast (Marmalade Boysex Mix)

Remus is buttering toast when he feels Sirius' hands press flat against his abdomen. "Mmm," he murmurs. "G'morning."

"Morning." Sirius replies, brushes his fingers across the thin material of Remus' shirt.

Remus' exhale is shaky as he reaches for the marmalade. "Toast?" A tenuous defence against the brush of lips against his neck, the dream-sweet press of a sleepy mouth. (Kiss, vertebrae, bump, bump). Remus shivers, and his agile fingers fumble with the jar. (Knife, tart, lift, smooth).

Sirius shakes his head, nudges his nose into Remus' hair. "Mmm, not yet." Sleep-heavy words.

Remus tilts his head to the side, and Sirius' lips brush lightly down the curve of his neck; a gentle, insistent scrape of teeth and Remus almost drops the jar. "Sirius."

"Hmm?" The low rumbling of Sirius' chest against Remus' back doesn't help, nor the whuff of exhaled air on his skin. He forces his attention to the marmalade, and barely manages to get it open before Sirius slides his hands lower, brushing the waistband of Remus' shorts (belly concave at the touch; he hisses, slow, through his teeth.)

"I'm . . ." He shifts within the circle of Sirius' arms, trying to still the breathless whisper of an idea that ripples over his skin, firework-shower of thought and want, coaxed to life by stubble and smiles. ". . . _trying_ to. Toast."

Sirius laughs, a lazy curl of sound that sinks into the shadows behind Remus' ear. He rests his chin on Remus' shoulder, lifts one hand (cool wash of morning against once-heated skin), lays fingers over fingers, moves the knife. "Tsk," he murmurs, when marmalade is spread. "Sticky."

"You. This. . ." There's a smear of orange marmalade on Sirius' knuckle, and two more on his ring and pinky fingers, and Remus has the overpowering urge to take Sirius's hand in his own and lick it off. But Sirius is already bringing the hand to his own lips, tongue peeking out to swipe away the mess. "Not. _Not_ helping."

"Whoops," Sirius ignores him completely and his voice is suddenly very close to Remus' ear, skittering down his jaw, and his hand has slipped back down to rest casually (purposefully, suggestively, invitingly) on Remus' hip. "Y'got some just _there_."

"Where? I didn't, there's none, you're just . . ." Remus grits his teeth and scoops more marmalade from the jar. He spreads it, tries to ignore the pressure of Sirius' hips -- rock and away, rock and away -- tries to order his thoughts and -- _oh_ the splay of Sirius' fingers. He shivers again, almost drops his knife.

"Moony," whispers Sirius. "Such a messy boy."

"Sirius." Remus grits his teeth against the press of Sirius's palm spread flat against his hip, but-- "Padfoot," -- the lazy deliberate swipe of Sirius's tongue along his jaw; Remus' hand slips -- his fingers now a sticky sugared orange mess but he hardly cares -- and he fights to control the jerk of his hips. " _Sirius_."

"Should be more careful with that," Sirius murmurs. "Don't want to get it all over."

Remus blows out a breath, bites his lip against a smile. "You'd bloody get it all over if I let you, y'bastard," he mutters, but there's no malice in his voice, only the lazy shimmer of heat, affection. He lifts his hand, sucks the marmalade from his thumb as Sirius tugs on his earlobe.

"My job," whispers Sirius, and Remus shivers as fingers close around his wrist. "I should be . . ."

Remus gasps (fluttering splinter of breath) as the tip of Sirius' tongue touches his finger. "Padfoot . . ." he breathes, and Sirius smiles, takes the finger into his mouth and sucks against it, drags his tongue over indents and whorls to chase the bittersweet taste of oranges. Circle and sweep, a pull of lips; slow, wicked heat that builds and fades; a rumbling moan, and Remus thinks it might be his.

The knife drops to the counter with a clatter, and Remus turns, gasping, carding his fingers in Sirius's hair, curling his left hand on Sirius's waist and kisses him, open-mouthed, wanting. Sirius tastes tart-sticky-sweet and Remus is certain, now, that the low, insistent moan is coming from him, but the breathy airless gasps and soft mewls belong to Sirius. He can feel the shifting tremor of Sirius's muscles under his fingers (the slick, wet heat of their tongues sliding against each other, runes on the roof of his mouth, something indescribable in way they tangle) and he pulls their hips flush.

"Moony . . ." Remus hears, and he wonders how Sirius has room to voice the word when their bodies are this close, when their mouths are busy with the taste of each other and the sweet-sharp tang of citrus ( _like this_ ). He's hard, growing harder, and Sirius' knee slips between his own. Thigh against thigh, a languid rock of hips, and Remus drags air into his lungs as best he's able when Sirius' fingers close in the hem of his shirt. "Off," Sirius whispers, and Remus raises his arms, loses himself in shadow and heat as Sirius drags the shirt over his head. Dark, muffled quiet, then the shirt is gone, and the sunlight spilling through the kitchen window is shiver-soft-new against his skin. Sirius's nose is at his throat, fingers coaxing music from the arch of his spine then -- fumble, a shift, and a thumb sweeps over his nipple, smearing marmalade in its wake. "Sirius?" Remus blinks a question but – _wait_ – rasp of tongue and his answer's found.

" _Oh_ ," he's left normal breathing far behind and the toast is getting cold but he really can't bring himself to care. It's just Sirius, Sirius' mouth on his chest, intricate patterns and warm kisses on his belly, something unfurling (bright, ragged, abstract), and he presses closer, a kiss to Sirius' shoulder and the scrape of teeth (there are light freckles there; he kisses them all, twice) as he slips his thumbs under the elastic of Sirius' shorts. "These," he manages, "Now. Off."

Sirius obliges, smiling all the while, and brings his hand to cup Remus through the boxers that ride low on his hips. "You?" he asks, but makes no effort to remove the shorts, gliding his fingers over Remus' length with wash-soft cotton still in the way, swiping with his thumb and pressing with the heel of his hand until Remus' vision blurs and he chokes out Sirius' name. He pushes at Sirius' hand, tries to shift and arch but Sirius presses him back against the counter, kisses him hungrily, and there's marmalade beneath Remus' palm when he scrabbles a hold against Formica and metal.

Remus just wants more, now — the firm pressure of Sirius' hand, the need twisting into a tight knot in his stomach. He places his hand in the middle of Sirius's chest and pushes, just enough to free his hips, enough to slip the waistband over his hips, smearing marmalade on his stomach and thigh.

"Fuck. _Remus_." Sirius drops to his knees, fingers splayed against the angle of Remus' hips, pressing him back against the ancient kitchen cabinets as he leans to swipe marmalade from his thigh with the very tip of his tongue.

"Padfoot!" Remus hisses the word between clenched teeth, the muscles in his thighs trembling beneath the press of Sirius' mouth, the scrape of his stubble against his skin. "Please . . ." But Sirius only slows, lengthens each kiss, laps marmalade and sleep and need from Remus' thigh, the crease of his hip, the curve of his stomach. Remus tangles his fingers in Sirius' hair and keens to feel that mouth -- that heat – so much lower.

Sirius pins Remus' hips against cabinet, thumbs tucked under his hipbones, pressing into the hollows there as he gently sucks on a patch of skin just beneath Remus' bellybutton, the lingering taste of marmalade still on his tongue. Remus' fingers fly against his scalp and he shivers, languorously tracing letters with his tongue -- the slow line of an "i", the lingering "l", a circular "o" and sharp pointed "v" and relishing the desperate rise and fall of Remus' chest, the strain of his hips against Sirius' firm hold.

" _Padfoot_. By all that's . . ." But the sentence dies, transformed into a gasp, a broken moan as Sirius traces an 'e' over the head of Remus' cock. Remus shakes, breath uneven as he looks down, sees Sirius smile, sees him lick his lips and arch an eyebrow.

"Better?" Sirius asks, and Remus nods, loses his breath completely as warm, slick heat surrounds his cock. Sirius' tongue is a curlicue of torment, a flickering, relentless, insistent pressure. Fire licks along the length Remus' spine, and he tries to thrust against the hands that hold him.

Sirius pulls back to look up at Remus, eyes hooded and dark. "Ah-ah. None of that." Remus gulps, nods, tries to keep his hips still as Sirius ducks back down, tracing the long tail of a "y" on the underside of his cock.

Remus whimpers. "Not the you, not the you," he whispers plaintively, sweat beading in the hollow of his collarbone, dampening the nape of his neck, coaxing his hair into curls. "Don't . . ." He pants as Sirius takes the head of his cock into his mouth, traces the 'o' in circles around his shaft. " _Tease_ ," he grits out as Sirius pulls away, hoists himself up and kisses him hard, 'u' a cadence, a rough-worn sigil etched into the heated spaces inside his mouth.

"Yes, you," Sirius gasps as he pulls away, slides their hips together, cock against cock. "Just you." He rocks his hips, sets the rhythm, and Remus sees flashes of colour at the corner of his eyes. He rocks forward, meets Sirius thrust for thrust, hands to Sirius' arse, fingers curling, pressing, urging him closer, sooner, quicker, _now_.

Just, oh, _there_ \-- the friction, wet slide of skin against skin, Sirius's face buried in his neck and the smell of his hair -- oranges, clean sweat, burnt sugar, sunlit morning. His eyes flutter open, closed, and he murmurs into Sirius's hair, "You, you, you, only you," an answering litany, evensong set to the morning sun's rise. The muscles in his legs tense, seize; his back arches and Sirius's hips are pulsing pressure against his own.

"Fuck, Moony," Sirius mumbles desperately, lips questing feverishly over shoulder and throat. "So close, so close," and Remus can only grunt his agreement as they fumble a kiss -- ill-fitting lips and tangled breath, noses that bump as hips buck and quiver and -- " _Moony_ . . ."-- Sirius comes, wild snap of hips and broken murmurs, sharp cries that fade into broken gasps, slick heat between both their stomachs and Remus moans, fingers tightening, spreading, pulling.

"Sirius . . ." He shifts, new angles, Sirius' hipbone is sharp against his cock and _oh_ , he breaks, splinters and spills, sinks his teeth into Sirius' shoulder to ride out the shaking in his limbs, the white flare of heat that rises, consumes.

"Sirius," quietly this time, their faces buried in each others' necks with their tangled hair and the skittering, shallow brush of heated air against skin as Remus tries to regain control of his lungs, his heartbeat. He places a possessive palm on Sirius's back and breathes deep, "Sirius," on the exhale.

"Mmm," Sirius mumbles into Remus' neck. "Better than toast."

"Yes," he laughs lightly, placing a gentle kiss on the soft skin between shell of ear and long, dark hair. "Definitely better than toast."


End file.
